Slut?
by Pancakes-x
Summary: Vegeta & Bulma split up.Bra needs attention.But the only time she gets it is when she's around boys & men. With the right clothes and attitude, she discovers that she's guarented to get all the male attention she wants. But at what cost? R
1. Vegeta & Celeria

**(A/N: Hey. Hope you enjoy this story. It's about Bra going through hard times in her life since her parents split and she needs attention…. And she finds it in boys.**

**I believed I picked up on a new style slightly. Yay me!**** But anyway, hop e you enjoy and don't forget to review…)**

_Its__ two years ago, and I'm just about to turn twelve. At home things are just about to turn too. My mother spends most of her time crying in the bedroom or the kitchen, or wherever someone might hear. To get away, I'm in the woods near the house. Wandering._

_Suddenly he's there, walking towards me. His face blank. His breathing ragged, audible. I've seen him before. He's mentally retarded. The boy who never grew up. But he's different this time. There's something distant in his eyes, and strange. As he comes closer, I see why-his fly is open and from its stands his erect penis. It's pale and fishlike, an alien thing. I take a step backward. He stares at me and says nothing. I turn and run-_

Screeching brakes from a semi truck bring me back. I'm on one of my walks, waiting to cross the busy freeway. The driver is watching me and blasts the horn. He's maybe thirty years old, wearing a white tank top. He has blonde hair and thick stubble. His window is rolled all the way down and his arm rests on the top. He sits up high, but he's close enough for me to see the sun glinting off the pale, short hairs on his arm. My eyes lock on his and he flashes a warm, friendly grin. There's something else in his eyes too. He's interested, admiring.

My body fills with warmth, as though heat is seeping from the sidewalk and through my flip-flops all the way to my face. I like the feeling, his eyes lingering on my small new breasts. I smile back. I reach into my pocket for my camera.

"Hey, there." He says. Before I can take a picture, the brakes of the truck release, the gears shift, and he is gone. I watch after him, wanting something, wishing there were more. Wondering if his erect penis looks pale and fishlike.

When I get back to my house, my brother Trunks is sweeping the kitchen floor.

"Hey." I say. I want to tell him about the man in the truck, but what should I say? He pauses for a moment and then looks at me. He's only three years older than I am, but sometimes he's like a middle-aged man.

"Where have you been Bra?" Mum is at the sink fixing a broken down robot that was meant to be doing our dish washing duties. Her arms move so fast, she's a pro at this. She turns to frown at me. It's Dad's weekend with Trunks and me, so Mum is starting her regular meltdown. Even though they divorced almost a year ago, she won't forgive Dad for the affair.

The affair had gone on for almost three months. My dad, Vegeta was sick and tired of staying with Bulma mostly because she was a human. As the years had gone by Dad's sex drive had grown stronger and stronger while Mum's faded due to her ageing. But it wasn't her fault, she couldn't help it. He was a saiyan and she wasn't. Of course Mum could've created some sort of ageing device or wished on the dragon balls to help out but she thought Vegeta wouldn't mind. One part of her regrets not doing it in the first place and the other just realises that Vegeta probably didn't have true feelings for her.

"I took a walk." I say.

"You wanted that expensive photography class, and then you don't show up."

Oops. I forgot.

When I sighed up for thee four-week class in June, it was all I could think about. I couldn't wait for the classes to start. I didn't really want to take over Capsule Corp. to be truthful. I wanted Trunks to do all of that. I was just totally into photography, not this weird techno mumbo jumbo stuff my mum does. It's not my thing. Even if a fortune is involved, I prefer doing something I love more. Photography.

"Who do you think I am?" your personal chauffeur? I'm supposed to wait for you? I have a life too." She says.

I set my mouth so I won't blurt anything. Mum misunderstands whatever I say. I go up to my room. The contest information sits on my desk. Ruth's hand writing is at the top: DON'T FORGET! She's been my art teacher since seventh grade. The big blue letters seem to mock me. "Forget" is my new middle name. Ruth's in charge at out school of this year's national high school art contest. The prize is five thousand dollars and a chance to show your work in the National Gallery., where thousands of people will see it.This is the first year I'll be able to submit my work. I just started my first year in high school.

"You have a gift." Ruth told me once while sifting through photos I had just developed in the darkroom. I've held onto that idea ever since: a gift, waiting to be unwrapped. I want more than anything to win that prize. And not for the money. For the chance to be seen.

The deadline is December fifteenth, three months away. The theme of this year's contest is self-portrait. Last year it was nature. This sounds much easier.

I take my digital canon out of my pocket, place it carefully on the desk and pick up the manual canon that Mum and Dad bought for me on my twelfth birthday.

It, surprisingly, was actually my Dad's idea to get it. It happened once we were arguing; it was about me refusing to do my homework. He laughed at a certain point and promised to buy me a camera so I could take a picture of myself to show him the fool that I will grow into in a few years. As if!

But this whole photo contest is a huge big deal for me! It won't make me a fool, but if it did I'd become a 'noticed' one. A 'famous' one. Then I could prove my dad wrong!

I stand in front of the floor length mirror. Other than my long heavy blue toned hair and the small beauty spot somewhere on my jaw, I barely recognize myself. My hips are wide and my breasts are swollen. I have earned three zits on my forehead through out 4 years into my adolescent hood (14).Even my feet seem strange and not mine.

How will I take a self-portrait if I don't know who I am anymore? I hold up the camera, adjust the focus, and _snap!_ I don't know what the picture will look like, but sometimes my camera sees better than I do.

I hear a horn honking outside. It's Dad in his white mustang.

See, this is what gets me ticked off. Unfortunately it was also my Mum's 'nagging' that got him turned off too. He said she was reminding him of 'Kakarotts Harp'. All Mum only did was ask if Dad wanted to learn how to drive since Chichi was already 'forcing' Goku to do so. Dad said what's the point when he can fly? Plus driving is for pussys.

Now look at him. And the thing is his new 'girl' is a saiyan too. She can fly, in fact they both can! Yet they drive to 'blend in'. Since when did Dad _ever_ want to blend in?

It just wasn't right and so unfair on Mum. Sometimes I feel hurt just looking into my Dad's eyes.

I come downstairs just in time to see Mum running to her room without saying good-bye.

I catch Trunks looking back at the stairs twice before he closes the door behind us. Trunks and I hump our backpacks out to the car. It is late afternoon, almost evening. My favorite time so the day, when the sky seems to lift and the sun shoots out at an angle, no longer right overhead and punishing. All the photos I take in this light come out tinted blue.

"Well, get in! We haven't got all day." Dad says. He's leaning against the passenger door, his smirk so big, his hair dark and spiking out in all directions (mostly upwards) and that dull yet funky shaped 'M' hair line flapping a bit through the breeze.

He reaches out to take our packs, and, though Trunks lets him take his bag, he shrinks away from him whenever he tries to start a father and son type of conversation.

When it comes to me, considering I'm the girl. Dad just gives a cold yet comforting hug. He looks me up and down. I cross my arms over my chest, not wanting him to see my breasts.

"Every time I see you girls lately, it seems your all changing so fast." Of course Dad doesn't mea it in a nice way, and this is what hurts me. Normally ( if you haven't seen your parents in ages) you'd have

4444hem hug an squeeze you saying stuff like: Oh my! You've grown so much! OR Whoa! What a big boy/girl you've grown into!

But no, not this guy. What he really means is: It's a shame your half human. You've aged so fast and your only 14! You've changed so fast.

I look at my dad. He has that face again. That: I'm-sad-but-I-don't-want-to-admit-it face.

Even though my dad isn't that type of person who would share his feelings; I wait for him like an idiot to say something about the sadness, but he just smirks and opens the car doors for me. Trunks avoids his eyes, but I smile back, knowing it's what he wants-

For us to like his 'new' decision.

"Can we have Friendly's tonight?" I ask as soon as we're all in the car.

Trunks' in the front seat. I'm in the back. Dad looks over at Trunks, whose gaze is fixed put the window. "What do you think Trunks?"

Trunks shrugs with a slight hint of annoyance. "Whatever."

I press my fingers into the vinyl seat, trying to think of something good to say, something that will take Dad's mind off Trunks' attitude. Because I definitely didn't want Dad to go into rage and start giving it his all like he always did.

"Let's go to the one near the mini golf course."

Dad muttered a few words. "For once that's actually a good plan." He says. Then, "Just need to make one stop."

My stomach drops. "I knew it." Trunks say.

Dad glares at Trunks. "Get used to it. You don't even know her!"

"I thought it was just going to be us for the weekend."

"Oh come on! Stop being sissy! You're saiyans!" Dad says.

"Half." Trunks reminds him. Dad shrugs as he remembers we are also part 'human' too. Which now a days he doesn't like one bit. Or so he says…

"Things are definitely going to change from now on." Dad finishes the topic.

After dinner we walk into Dad's apartment. It's strange to see all his things, all the stuff _they_ had bought _together_ when they moved in. I pull my digital out of my pocket and eye the room through the screen. A one bedroom with a foldout futon for a couch. A TV. A desk with a computer. A kitchen table with four metal-legged chairs.

Celeria shows up in the screen. I follow her with the lens. She walks into the kitchen, opens a cabinet, and pulls out a glass, knowing where everything is. She flips her half spiky blonde hair over her shoulder and turns on the tap to fill her glass.

She is comfortable here.

Dad enters the screen. He comes up beside Celeria, puts a hand on her back, just above her butt. He knows where everything is too. I glance over to Trunks to see if he's watching, but he's already on the futon, her bag on her lap, putting his I-hate-being-here-so-let's-just-get-this-over-with look. He didn't say one word during dinner.

That night Trunks and I lie on the futon. The mattress is hard. Shadows of leaves jump across the ceiling, making pretty shapes. I can hear the hums of cars on the street. It is always hard to sleep the first night here. Especially tonight, knowing Celeria is here in the bedroom with Dad. Knowing that they are together, under the covers. I focus on Trunks' breathing, hoping the pulse of his breath will quiet my mind, but I can tell by the quickness that he is awake too.

Instead I think about boys. I t is what I do lately when I can't sleep: I pick a boy-one I know, one I saw, or one I made up, and imagine how things will go. Tonight I imagine there is a new boy in the ninth grade. He has dark shaggy hair hanging to his eyes, and he wears ruined jeans low on his hips. He doesn't know his way around yet, so he asks me where algebra class is. Wouldn't you know it? We have algebra together. After school we get on the same but because, it turns out, he just moved into a house on my street. After the bus drops us off, we walk together and talk about everything. Then in front of my house, he leans forward and kisses me. Soon his hands are in my hair and on my back.

"You're what I've been waiting for." He whispers, and he presses his warm body against mine. His hands work their way down my back to my behind, and he pulls me into him- Just then I strong energy bursts into my fantasy followed by a loud sound, a sound I don't quite recognize.

I listen. It's Celeria, powering up and making noises with my father, on the other side of the wall. Need I remind you of the first reason my Dad left? My stomach goes hollow and the blood rushes to my face. Worse, I can feel a tingle between my legs, sent there by my fantasy boy, but egged on by Celeria's moans. I slide my hands up slowly to cover my ears, hoping I don't wake Trunks.

Trunks rolls away from me. He hears it too.

**Sorry if it seems rubbish and probably OOC. But I tried. It'll get interesting, believe me. Don't forget to review.**

_**Tempz99**_


	2. A chance blown

**Thanks for the reviews people. I'm surprised some of you **_**actually **_**liked it. R&R.**

"No, she didn't," Pan says. We are at the movie theatre, waiting in line for popcorn. Pan stares at me with her big dark brown eyes, her dark bobbed hair swinging as she shakes her head.

"Oh, yes she did," I say. I am telling her about last night, about Celeria, my and Dad.

"You must have felt so ashamed." Shame is Pan's new subject. She discuses it whenever possible. She's interested in pop-psychology. She has been ever since her father died seven years ago, leaving her and her mother alone. Her father was also my uncle, his name was Gohan. He was a really nice guy, a bit of a nerd but still nice. He had died in a battle when he tried to help his dad (Goku) save the world. It was quite painful the way he died. Did I say quite? I meant it hurt like a bitch! He got blasts like 10 times with some sort of super strong spirit bomb. Some how the monster absorbed and copied all of Goku's moves and used it against him. The blast was meant to hit Goku directly, but because Goku was caught of guard he thought of a sort of split second reaction and bounced the attack the other way… Only to have it hit Gohan. Ever since Goku couldn't live with himself thinking he killed his own son, and as for Pan? She's just been clinging onto the past.

But I guess it helps her make sense of things. I start to respond, something about her working shame into the conversation, when I see him. Goten. The boy I would kill for. The boy I have been wagging my tongue at since fourth grade when he first moved here and showed up in Mrs. Kennedy's homeroom. He's surprisingly Pan's uncle, but for some reason in public they don't really show it. It's some type of act for the public to see.

But despite he's my best friend's uncle doesn't mean I can't have a little crush on him. Besides, what's the harm?

Pan follows my eyes. "Oh, no."

"Oh, yes." Goten laughs at something his friend Shame says as he hands his ticket to the kid waiting. His eyes, which I already know are as deep as a deep dark colour could get.

Dark and with a hint of sparkles. Goten is the most beautiful boy I have ever seen, including Brad Pitt. He and Shane walk towards the popcorn line. I love the way he walks, the way he drags his feet as though he is in no hurry to get anywhere. His eyes pass over mine, and then come back. I smile. So does he.

"Could we just get our popcorn and find a seat?" Pan asks, annoyed.

"I'm just going to say hello." I leave Pan standing there and make my way over to Goten. He isn't looking. But when I say hi, he turns to face me and I watch his eyes glance quickly up and down my body. I know he sees me, my new hips, my breasts. I press out my chest just slightly.

"Which movie are you seeing?"

"_Extreme terror_," He tells me. I can't tell whether he wants to talk to me. Shane is watching me, so I smile at him, too. It can't hurt to have his friends think I'm cute.

"Hey," I say. Shane nods. "That's what we're seeing too," I lie. "Maybe we'll see you in there."

"Sure." Goten says. I head back over to Pan, who cuts her eyes at me.

"You owe me four bucks!" She says. She's holding the large popcorn and a Coke. With her body still skinny and undeveloped, she looks like a little girl standing there. I feel bad making her wait.

"Listen." I say. "Would it be okay if we saw _Extreme Terror_ instead?"

Pan's face grows red and blotchy like it always does when she's upset.

"You go," She says. "I'm going to see the movie we agreed to."

"Okay." I say. "Forget it. It was just an idea." I look up and see Goten and Shane ordering popcorn. I pull out my pocket Canon and sneak a few photos of Goten.

I can look at them later, when Pan's not around.

On Monday I go to the darkroom to see how my self-portrait came out. I dip the contact print in the hypo, then the stop bath, and hang it by the clothespins and wait. Ruth and I have an arrangement that I can work in the darkroom after school. She gives me extra credit for it. I've always liked the way the rest of the world goes away in here, how the universe becomes just this: me and my photographs. Slowly the picture comes into being. First it is just a shadowy ghost, then an outline, and finally I sharpen and step into the room. I am just jeans and a face with a camera. The rest of me is washed out, hidden behind the bright light of flash. The picture is interesting but says nothing. I yank it down, ripping the edge, and crumple it into a ball. As I emerge from the dark-room and into the hallway, Ruth sees me. She puts her hands on my shoulders. Ruth has always been affectionate with students. Her salt and pepper hair is held back with two combs, and she's wearing one of her hippie skirts. Students call her Tie-Dye behind her back, but I feel protective of her. She's always been nice to me.

"Any ideas yet?" She asks me.

"Sure." I lie. A few students pass by. They look over to see what's going on. "I'm working on a few things."

Ruth's eyes are soft and pouch. She never wears make-up. She should. She has potential to be pretty. "I know you'll come up with something great." She smiles and releases me. I feel awful. I'm a failure. I have nothing. No Ideas. No pictures. I head toward the cafeteria for lunch.

Ashley, Shane's girlfriend and the most popular girl in the ninth grade, passes with a group of her friends. She says hello. If she were to turn a camera on me right now, what would she see through the lens? An average girl. Nothing special, except I can take good pictures. And without it I am back to average, blended in with the background. Without it I barely exist.

In the cafeteria the first person I see is Marron, sitting by herself, of course. Ever since she developed breasts in the fourth grade, way before everybody else, she has been sitting alone. She is, officially, our school slut. Before, she and I were friends. Every so often we played together at each other's houses. We colored in books or played board games. Once people ostracized her, though, I kept my distance. I didn't want to be mean, but I had to do what I had to do.

Next I see Goten. He sits with Shane, Josh, and Ry at the table nearest the lunch line. It's where he sat in eighth grade and seventh grade, too. I'll bet he never questions whether he matters. He just knows he does. His friends are laughing at something he has said, and as I watch, Goten glances up at me. I should look away. I shouldn't be so obvious. But I can't help it. I am trapped in his eyes. Those gorgeous dark eyes. And then half a smile creeps onto his face. It is not a nice smile. It's something else. Something we share, just he and I. Like he knows the way I've thought about him late at night, when I can't sleep. I can feel my face grow warm, and I turn away, ashamed, as Pan would say. I get in the lunch line, but I can't shake the feeling Goten gave me. And I like it much better than worrying about the contest.

After school I take a walk. The air smells of dried leaves. Everywhere is orange and rust and yellow. Colors I can never capture with my camera. I try anyway. I take the Canon from my book bag, focus, and _snap! _You never know when you've taken the perfect shot.

A billboard shows a woman's body reclining. She wears a shiny red negligee, a suggestive smile, and a milk mustache. MILK DOES A BODY GOOD, it says across the bottom. Beneath the billboard is a bus stop where a girl with ripped lace stockings stands and talks on her cell phone. Sitting beside her is an old man with a cane. A photo opportunity. _Snap!_

I put my camera away to focus on the cars speeding by. Or, rather, to focus on who might be in the cars. Sure enough, a man slows down to take a look. I swing my hips, lift my eyes just slightly, and smile. He hoots as he passes. Another one whistles. I know this is stupid, inviting trouble. But it feels so good to be wanted, I can't help myself. A man in silver Honda Civic slows down to look. Next thing I know, he's on the shoulder. I keep walking, afraid to look. Afraid of what I've done. Finally things have gone too far. I can hear his window rolling down.

"You look lost." He calls to me.

I turn to see. He's a young guy, attractive even. He has dark long hair pulled into a ponytail, and sharp crystal clear ice blue eyes. He wears a beat-up T-shirt. For some reason he reminded me a lot of one of my aunties. But I just couldn't put my finger on it.

"I'm not." I tell him.

I watch as his eyes move up and down my body. My instinct is to cross my arms over my chest, but I like it from this guy. His eyes are pretty, with long dark lashes lie a girl's.

"Then what are you doing here?" He asks me. "This is a busy freeway. It's no place for a little girl to take a walk."

"I'm not a little girl."

"Really?" He smiles, revealing a gap between his two front teeth. "How old are you?"

"None of your business." I tell him. I move a little closer.

"You can't be eighteen." He says, as though finishing a conversation in his mind.

"What if I am?"

He laughs. "If you are, I'm taking you home with me."

I laugh too, but I stay where I am.

"Come on." He says. "Hop in."

M y heart ponds. I can feel sweat gathering at my armpits. "I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"I can't." I say. "Not now."

"Okay." He says,. "Another time then." He winks. He turns on his signal and pulls back onto the street. I watch his car get smaller, and then disappear around the bend. Instead of relief I feel disappointed, like I've just missed out on something big.

My chance to matter.

**Thanks for reading. Please Review.**

_**Tempz99**_


	3. Sorry AN

Sorry that I've had been taking so long. I haven't forgotten about this fic, its just I had a lot more essays, they keep rolling in. I promise to update soon.

_**Tempz99**_


	4. Hiding Secrets

**Hi, finally updated. I was on a writers block again for nearly all my stories. Anyway, enjoy and don't forget to R&R. **

When I walk in the front door. I hear familiar chatter from the living room. Once a month Mum hosts a women's book group she started. She's an English teacher at a high school a few towns away, and, even more than reading them, she loves talking about books.

She used to own a company called Capsule Corp. which was a world wide type of thing (though there was only one of us). She used to make inventions with my grandpa, but ever since Mum made that aging machine Grandpa has taken over the business by himself with his ever lasting youth… Okay, he's not _young _again but his aging had seemed to have frozen where it was and it seems it's not planning to change in a _long_ time.

I peer around the corner of the foyer to see eight women sitting on our couch, chairs, and pillows on the floor. Trunks is there too, perched on the easy chair. Mum looks up.

"You all know my daughter, Bra." She says brightly. She extends her arm to me, inviting me to come. She is a different person when people are watching her.

The women smile, pausing from their tea and coffee.

Most have pieces of pound cake on napkins balancing on their knees. A few look me up and down, disapproving probably of my tight jeans and skimpy shirt. I recognise one woman as Marron's mother. She has plain dull yellow hair and heavy makeup (For once!). I had to admit; the 'heavy' makeup suited her. Auntie 18 wasn't really a big fan of makeup and neither was she used to hanging round with the rest of the 'Z Gang' but I guess the slight hint of loneliness got to her and ever since she's been trying to blend in. I believe she tries too hard at times.

"I have homework." I tell Mum.

Mum's smile is tight and unmoving. "You can say hello for a moment." She says. I bite my lip and move closer, letting Mum slid her arm around my waist. Trunks flips lazily through the book on his lap. He's the only one, I notice, who is actually holding a book.

"What are you reading?" I ask. I know Mum will appreciate my showing interest. At the least she will let me go upstairs sooner.

"_The Poisonwood Bible._" One of the women says. She has frizzy hair and glasses too big for her face. "Have you read it?"

I shake my head. Unlike Trunks, I'm not much of a reader.

"I only read when I have to." I say.

Mum leans forward, releasing me. That same smile is stuck on her face. "I don't know where she came from." She says. "Trunks and I are such avid readers."

Trunks glances at me quickly, then looks back at the book. I watch my sneaker as I move it back and fourth on the carpet, not wanting to see anyone else's expression.

Maybe she doesn't know what she sounds like when she says stuff like that.

"Some people like to read, and others don't," a woman says. "We're all different."

The room is quiet.

"I do photography." I say after a few moments, to defend myself.

The room erupts in oh's and ah's. They seem eager to break the discomfort.

"Should we get back to discussing Leah's character?" Mum says when the room settles. With that, I slip out.

Pan passes me the plate of cookies. She can eat anything and stay skinny as a pole. Ever since my body changed, a cookie goes straight to my thighs, just like Mum. I take one anyway, thinking I won't eat more. We are sitting on Pan's bed. _Kyoto and the boys _(the hottest boy band from Japan) smiles from the shiny cover of the _'Loud!' _(Magazine)between us. The walls are pink. Dolls line an upper shelf. She hasn't changed her room since we met, back in second grade. That was right after her father died from the 'battle' and she and her mother moved houses to become closer to family. I'd suggest she redecorate, but she only repositions one of the dolls or changes its outfit. Her clothing has slightly changed, I could tell she wanted to move on to a more punkier/rocker look and style but her past seems to lock onto her. Despite that, she's comfortable in her childhood room. Maybe it helps her stay close to her father's memory.

"Coach thinks we can go to state" she says. She's talking about track. She has cross-country, I have photography. It's always been like that. During recess in second grade she ran and ran around in the playground while David Shafer chased her. I wandered off near the trees, examining the way the sunlight shifted on the leaves. I didn't care back then whether a boy looked at me or not. Now I can barely keep my own eyes still long enough to focus the camera. She can tell I'm distracted. "How's the contest coming?"

"Ugh." I say. "Don't remind me."

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?"

Pan gets up and pulls open her blinds. Her back is facing me.

"I'm sorry, Pan." I say. "I just don't want to talk about it."

She looks back at me and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. "Then what _do _you want to talk about? Let me guess: Goten."

"What's gotten into you?"

"Me?" She says. "You're the one who's changed.

I look down on my hands. There's a smudge of chocolate on my thumb from the cookie. I know she's right. What would she say if she knew about my walks? Is she knew about the guy in the Civic, how I've thought of him ever since? She would probably be appalled. "Let's just talk." I say. "What do you want to talk about?"

Right then Pan's mother knocks on the door.

"Come in." Pan calls without hesitation. This is another way we are nothing alike. She is exceptionally close to her mother, who she refers to by first name. She calls Videl her other best friend. And, from the way Pan talks about her, she can do no wrong. Pan's the one interested in psychology, so I'm amazed she hasn't figured out _why_ she has to be best friends with her mother. Who else does she have?

"How are we doing on cookies?" Videl asks. Her dark hair falls loosely over her shoulders, and she is thin like Pan. They look like sisters minus the eyes. Videl's are a soft blue and Pan's are sharp and dark.

"We're good." Pan says. She gives Videl a look that says she'll talk to her later. Videl nods and closes the door.

We're in a silent moment.

I breathe in, trying to come up with the right thing to say. "You're so lucky." I say once Videl closes the door. "Your mum is so great."

Pan smiles and moves back towards the bed. She likes it when I compliment her mother. I mean it, though. Videl has always been kind to me. But I know saying so will get me back in Pan's good graces.

"She's the best." She says with another smile.

"Pan." I scrunch my face. "I'm sorry I've been such an ass."

Pan looks at me. "A double ass."

"Triple." I say.

She laughs.

I breathe out and before you know it I'm laughing with her. We're back to normal.

At home the house is quiet and dark. When I go upstairs, I can hear my mother's muffled sobs through Trunks' bedroom door.

"Who would have me?" my mother says. "I'm used and old."

"No." Trunks says quietly, almost whispering.

"Your father left me. Who will ever love me again? I'm just some ugly old bitch who lives in a huge empty mansion, used fucked up and lonely! Tell me, just who the hell would love me, ever again?"

"I do." Trunks says. "I love you."

I tiptoe away from the door, not wanting them to hear me.

In my room I pull down my book of twentieth-century photography. Why is there no chapter of self portraits? Most photographers, it seems, avoided the subject. I understand why. They focus on what was outside them: people, shadows, shapes. The same things I like to focus on. On my wall are the ones I'm most proud of, including the shot of the circular stairwell that won first prize in the Bergen Country Day eighth-grade art contest. I wasn't up against high school kids all over the country then. Leafing through the book. I stop on Cindy Sherman. Almost all her work is self-portraits. Here she is a man. Here she is dressed in lace. Here she is a corpse. She is brilliant, sliding into various identities. She tells who she is by becoming a tiny piece of who she is and who she is not. I wish I could be as clear.

I pull down shoe boxes from the top shelf of my closet. I sift through the photographs. Pan and me in Manhattan. Dad and Trunks and me. Mum and dad with us when we were little. Dad hangs his arm loosely over Mums shoulder. They look comfortable, settled. Mum told me they pregnant with Trunks months before they decided to get married. Mum was so anxious to have a family, Dad was too. But he wasn't really the type to let out his emotions. They were very much in love. They assumed, as I guess all married couples do, that their feelings would last forever. They didn't count on job and kid stresses. They didn't count on Dad pulling away and Mum grasping tighter, desperate for her life to be what she had planned. In the photograph they stare out at me, serene and unknowing. It's hard to understand these are the same people, now as frantic and restless as wild animals.

I hear Trunks' door open, then click shut. I hear Mum pad towards her bedroom. I stay perfectly still, hoping she won't hear me. But she stops outside my door, probably seeing my light.

"Bra?" she asks.

"What."

"You're home."

I watch the door, willing it not to open. She knows I won't let her cry to me the way she does with Trunks, but I have to keep my shield up to make sure. If I let it down for even a second, she might forget.

"Well, okay." Mum says when I don't respond. "Good night."

I listen for her door to close, and then I crumple the photo of our family and throw it at the wastebasket. It misses, hits the wall, and rolls under my desk out of sight.

I'm in the darkroom, where everything is still. The red light makes me feel as though I am in another Dimension, like being underwater, the world dreamlike and illuminated.

First I dip the pictures from the freeway. The leaves one is unremarkable, but I like the photograph of the girl on the phone. I can feel her sharp energy, almost angry, next to the old man. Why can't the contest be about other people?

Next I dip the prints of Goten and watch him come into being. I can see the slump of his shoulders and the way he rests his weight to one side. I can see the light in his hair, the roundess of his lips. Just looking at his picture makes me buzz with a want I can feel like I'm going to explode or scream or melt away. I've never felt like this before, like a dam about to burst. It's scary, but exciting. Like something's got to happen.

There's a knock and, without waiting for an answer, Ruth slips into the room. I don't have time to pull my Goten pictures down, so she sees them. Sees me looking at them.

"I thought I'd check on you." She says, looking at the pictures as I start undoing the clothespins. "What are these?"

"Just some photos." I say. "I was playing around"

She nods, watching me with a smile on her face. I don't meet her eyes; just keep taking down my pictures.

"I was hoping I'd catch you with something you were working on for the contest."

I don't say anything. I wave the photos in the air, hoping they're dry enough, and stuff then into my book bag.

"Was that Goten Son?" she asks.

I nod.

Her smile increases. "Are you two together?"

"No." I say. "Not really." I glance at the door, wondering how to escape. I don't want to talk to Ruth about this. She's known me for three years now, since I was eleven, since I thought boys were annoying, when I used to say the only thing that mattered in the world was my photography. I'm too embarrassed to have her know how mundane and pathetic I've become.

"You'd make a cute couple."

I reach for my bag. "I've got to go." I say and I bolt out of there. But sitting on the late bus home, I can't help but smile at the idea that Goten and I would make a cute couple. Mum stares straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel of our old minivan. She drives like an old woman, slow and full of anxiety. At this rate I'll never get to the photography class on time. Just when you though Aunt. Chichi was the granny type!

"I hope you're planning on spending the weekend with Trunks and me." Mum says.

"Fine." I say.

"With you two gone at your father's so much." She says, "I don't get any help."

I hold up manual Canon on my lap and look out the window at passing buildings. I want Mum to be happy, but why does it always seem to be at my own expense?

"Are you even listening to me?" she says.

"I said fine."

"You don't have to keep it a secret." she says after a moment.

I look at her, my pulse quickening. I think about my walks, about the guy in the Civic. I wonder how she could know.

"A secret?" I ask. Her shiny blue hair is pulled back behind her ears and I can see the tiny lines around her eyes. They call them laugh lines, but I can't remember the last time I saw her laugh. I wait, squeezing my camera.

"You can tell me about that woman he's with." Her face stays hard and unmoving. It takes me a second, but then I realize she's talking about Celeria.

"Mum." I say.

"No." she says, raising a hand up into the air, putting me on halt. "I'd rather you tell me than have everyone hide it from me."

"Nobody's hiding anything."

"I'm not some fool, you know," she says. This time her voice breaks and tears spring into her eyes. I look back out the window. A young woman is running with her dog on the sidewalk. I watch her running and running until she turns a corner, out of view. Mum slows down in front of the community college art building, where the class is taking place.

"I'm going to be late." I say, and I jet out the door without looking back.

As I approach the entrance to the building, I can already see this is a mistake. Three college-aged women are talking and smoking over their shoulders. My camera is nice, but it's not the top of the line like those. A white haired man who holds a tripod and a box meant for contact sheets. I watch as another man trots to catch up with him. He says something to the teacher, and they laugh. They all know each other already, having been together last week.

I duck behind a tree. After a minute they all disappear inside. That's when I head back to the road. It's a long walk home, plus I don't want Mum to know I didn't go to the class. I consider calling Dad, but he's probably out with Celeria or, worse, in bed with Celeria. So I go across the street to Starbucks. I figure I'll wait there until it's time to call Mum to pick me up.

I get a latte and sit outside, facing the street. The air is cool. We're one week into October, and already the leaves are filling the streets. Cars pass, and I find myself looking for the silver Civic. He would surely stop, wondering what I was doing here, all by myself. He would listen as I talked about my mother, and he would hold me while I talked about the ways in which I felt so alone. Cars pass, none of them him. Right then I decide I will go with him if I ever get the chance again.

**Thanks for reading. Review.**

_**Tempz99**_


	5. Knowing yourself

**Sorry for the long wait. Here's your chap. R&R**

I take a walk, timing it so I'm there right at the same time. Sure enough, a silver Civic comes around the bend, then slows onto the shoulder.

"Hey." He says, smiling. His eyes twinkle.

"Hey, I say. This time I'm not walking away. I move around to the passenger side and open the door. Inside it smells like car freshener and French Fries and something musky I don't recognise. I push a crumpled McDonald's bag aside with my foot. I'm wearing the black high-heeled boots I wore for Halloween last year, when I was Cat woman. A short black skirt that I'm regretting. He reaches down to grab the bag, brushing my leg as he does, and he throws the bag into the backseat. I glance back to see a tremendous pile of fast-food bags and empty soda bottles. I also see a car magazine jutting out beneath a bag- a woman's leg on top of the hood of a car. Heat creeps up my body. So does the realization he could be a serial killer or a rapist. This could be the stupidest thing I've ever done. He smiles at me.

"I haven't cleaned it out in a while." This close I can see stubble on his chin. He moves the gearshift, his forearm tensing. There's a spattering of freckles beneath the hair. I don't say anything; my heart is banging at my chest like a drum. I keep my eyes on my legs, which look fat spread out on the vinyl seats. He watches me for a long minute.

"Hey," He says. "Don't be nervous. We're just getting something to eat."

I still can't look at him."Or we can do something else." He says. "Whatever you want."

"I'm not hungry." I tell him.

"Okay." He says. When I still don't say anything, he places a gentle finger beneath my chin. On his hand I smell the scent I can't recognise. It's him, his particular scent. He turns my face towards his. His eyes are beautiful and kind, yet sharp. I take a breath, and he smiles. I smile back. "How about ice cream?" He asks, and I nod.

At the ice cream parlour he steps out of his car. He is shorter than I had imagined, but he is still attractive. His name is 17. He's twenty years old. For some reason his name reminded me of my auntie, 18. Since they both had numbered names, at some point I wonder if they were related. But it is a ridiculous thought to link someone because of a name coincidence.

We walk inside. We walk inside. With my two inch heels, I am almost as tall as he is. I can feel his eyes on my body. I consider what an eighteen year old would order and decide on mint chocolate chip in a dish. He gets a double chocolate cone. We sit at a table by the door, even though anyone from school could walk by. Pan could come in with her mother. Dad and Celeria could come in. How do I know what they do when they're not having sex? Amazing, no one I know comes through the door.

An hour later we're sitting in the civic a few houses down from mine. I tell him the big brick one is my house. The Gibbonses live there with their twin baby boys. I babysat for them a couple times over the summer. While I consider saying something about my baby brothers, just in case they come out of the house, 17 leans in and kisses me. It takes me by surprise, my first kiss. Warm and wet. I can feel his stubble on my cheek. His tongue darts into my mouth. A jolt of energy runs from my mouth down to my legs. When he leans back, I put my hand up to my mouth.

"I'm glad you were there today."He says.

"Me too." I tell him.

"I've been back there everyday looking for you."

"You have?"

"I couldn't help myself." He says. "Look at you. You're irresistible."

Nobody's ever said anything like this to me before. I smile, unsure what to say.

"When can I see you again?"

The sky is darkening, turning to evening. I have home-work to finish and school tomorrow. And then there's the contest, for which I still have nothing. "I don't know." I tell him.

He frowns. "Come on." He says. "Give me you number."

"How about you give me yours?" I say, knowing I have to keep 17 a secret at home.

"If you aren't interested, just say so." He says in a low voice. "I don't want to play games."

"Really." I say, thinking fast. "We're having some trouble with the phone company. Our number's not working."

He watches me, trying to gauge whether to believe me. Finally he gently takes my hand and turns it over. He pulls a pen from his dash and writes his number across my palm. I close the door and walk towards the Gibbonses front door, until he takes off. Then I head home, my fingers closed in a fist over his number.

At home there are two messages: one form Pan and one from Dad. Pan wants to tell me about practice. Dad says he expects to be a couple hours late to get us on Friday. He doesn't say so, but it has Celeria written all over it. I look up at the mirror in the front foyer. I put my fingers to my mouth. I've been kissed. These lips have been kissed. Pan would freak out if I told her. But I can't.

"Mum's out." I turn around to see Trunks. My hand drops from my face, and I close it so he can't see the number written on my palm.

"So?"

"She had a date." He waits. When I don't say anything, he says. "I'm supposed to make us dinner."

Trunks, cooking? "I'm not hungry." I say. I head for my room. Trunks just stands there. He's been waiting here, I guess, for someone to come home. Since the divorce he's spent all his time with Mum. I stop at the stairs, guilty. "What are you making?"

"Macaroni and Cheese." His short lavender hair hangs flat against his face. If I glance quickly at him, he could almost be Mum. Well, if you kind of remodel the figure, and change the hair color a bit then yeah, just like Mum.

I move off the stairs, my hand still in a fist.

"Who's Mum dating?"

"She met him at the grocery store. He told her she looked like Judy Garland."

**(A/N: Yeah, I know I know. But it was the only name I could think of. Cut me some slack will ya?) **

I wait. Trunks obviously has something to say about it.

"She thinks that means something." Trunks says.

"Maybe it does." I say. "Why not be happy for her?"

"She needs someone who will love her for her, not for how she looks."

Like you're the expert on live, I want to say. I know how good it can feel to have a man tell you something nice, like when 17 told me I was irresistible. Instead I say, "Why don't you focus on what you need and let Mum focus on what she needs?"

Trunks walks away, his brow furrowed. But I'm happy for Mum. Dad cheated on her for three years before he announced his plan to leave. Surely she knew but didn't want to accept the truth. Surely that cut away her self-esteem, knowing he was choosing another woman over her. Maybe Trunks' wrong. Maybe having a man tell her she looks like a beautiful star is exactly what she needs.

That night, though, when I', already in bed, I hear Mum come home, then the click of the door as she goes into Trunks' room. Soon after, I hear her sobs as they float through the door, and I pull the pillow down over my head.

"Where were you yesterday? Pan wants to know. We're in biology class, but Mr. Landon is so old he can hear us only when we talk really loud. That can be a pain, but it works well when we just want to chat.

"I was holed up in my room." I lie. "Working on some things for the contest." Which is what I should have been doing.

"Anything?"

I shake my head. Two seats forward and one to the left sits Goten. He has a blue cap on. His leg stretches into the aisle and bounces slightly. I now someone else has just kissed me, but Goten trumps 17 every time. I slip my digital out of my pocket and zoom in on the back of Goten's neck, which is visible through the wisps of dark hair sticking out beneath his cap. Pan leans over and looks into the screen.

"He moves through girls like they're potato chips." She says.

"I know." I say defensively.

"He can have anyone he wants."

"I get it." I say. "So why would he want me?" I watch as he points his toe in and out, in and out.

"I just don't want you getting hurt."

"Pan." I say, "You don't have to worry about me."

I can feel her staring at me.

"He'll be at Ashley's party."

"I know." I've already picked out my outfit: the black miniskirt and a ripped concert tee.

Goten turns his head as though sensing my camera's gaze. Heat comes into my face when he smiles in the screen. I snap a picture before he can look away.

Ruth once told me a photograph can capture the truth, but only if the photographer is willing to see it first. I think of this now as I position my manual Canon and set the timer.

Am I willing to see who I am? I stand before the camera, my arms at my side, my gaze level with the lens. I wait for the _snap! _Then I set the timer again. I am determined to fill a whole roll of 36 millimeter if that's what it takes. I go back and fourth, standing, sitting, kneeling, hands beside me, behind me, underneath my chin. I am single-minded in getting to the right picture, in capturing the truth.

Three-quarters through the roll something catches my eye out of the window. It is a sivler Civic, idling in front of the back of the Gibbonses' house. Oh, God. I throw on a hoodie, tie my hair back, and apply some eyeliner so I look closer to eighteen. I race out the back door and, hiding behind the bushes, get myself into the Gibbonses' backyard. Then I saunter up to the Civic.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

He smiles. "What do you think I'm doing?" He leans to the passenger side and opens the door. I stay still, my heart beating quickly form running over here. I glance back at the Gibbonses' house, hoping no one is looking out a window. "You can't just sit here like this." I tell him.

"You didn't call me." He's wearing sunglasses. It's obvious he isn't going anywhere, so I go around to the passenger side and get in.

"Drive." I say.

He moves toward me. "One kiss." He says, "And I'll do whatever you want."

Our lips meet. I pull back, not wanting anyone to see, but his mouth is insistent. He presses his tongue into my mouth.

"I can't stay long." I say once he pulled the car off my street.

I watch as his jaw muscle jumps. "Why are you like that?" He says.

"Like what?"

"Why are you always wanting to get away from me?" He slows through a stop sign, and the car juts forward when he presses on the gas.

"That's not it." I say. I reach up to find the handle above the window. The Oh-crap! Handle, Pan calls it. She never uses actual swear words. "I've just got a lot going on."

"Don't you think I have stuff going on?" He says. "I work at the shopmart all day."

"I didn't know that." I say.

"Well," He says. He shifts gears, and we slow down a bit.

"I hate it. I don't want to work there my whole life."

His fingers trace the Honda symbol on the steering wheel. His shoulders slump forward. I see in this brief moment that he doesn't like himself. It is something my camera might catch if I had it with me. Then the moment is gone. "I'm sorry." I say.

He shrugs. "I'm twenty years old and I have no clue what to do with my life." He glances at me. "How sad is that?

I bite the side of my cheek, trying to come up with something to say. "I'm sure you're not the only one." I say finally.

He puts a hand on my jeans. "I knew you weren't like other girls."

I look down at his hand, at the veins crawling beneath the skin. The warmth from his hand seeps through my jeans and creeps into my body all the way to my fingertips. Sometimes I don't like myself either. I want to tell him, but I wouldn't know how.

So I say, "Pull over." And when he does, I lean into him. This time I'm the one with the insistent mouth. I can practically feel him melting beneath me.

After a few minutes he pulls back.

"Man." He says, laughing. "What are you trying to do to me?

When he drops me off, I tell him to meet me at the community college on Friday, right in time for my class. Then I navigate my way through the backyards, my body still buzzing.

**Thanks for reading. Review please.**

_**Tempz99**_


	6. Guilty

**Sorry for taking long. Please R&R.**

Five boys sitting on the floor check out my legs when Pan and I walk in. A DJ with headphones is bouncing to the beat. Leave it to Ashley's friends huddle together, half dancing, half laughing. It smells of shampoo and pot. Shane and Ashley have their arms around each other. His hand sits on her behind. A girl I only sort of know hands me a beer, I thank her. I take my first swig.

In the far corner, laughing with Ry, stands Goten.

"You look awesome," a girl from art class wearing pig-tails says "You should dress like that more often."

"Thanks" I say. I left Dad's wearing jeans, which are now stuffed inside my purse. I didn't want to chance an argument about it. Not tonight. I keep one eye on Goten.

"Are you submitting for the contest this year?" she asks.

"Maybe" I say.

"But aren't you, like, Ruth's pride and joy?"

I shrug. She's starting to annoy me.  
"I'm not," I say when she rolls her eyes.

"You should be proud." She says. "It means you're good at art."

"Whatever" I say. But the truth is she's hit my panic button. Only two more until the deadline. I take another swig and look for Goten, who's slipped out of sight.

A few hours and two beers later, though, we almost crash into each other.

"Hey, camera girl." He says. He's drunk. "Can I call you that?"

"You can call me whatever you want." I whisper in his ear. I'm a little drunk myself.

Goten takes my hand. He pulls me through the crowd and up the stairs. I am all hands. I am all _that_ hand. The one Goten's holding. The one Goten Son is finally holding.

"Hey, camera girl." He says again, once we are behind a door. This time he says it up close, near my lips. I close my eyes and feel his warm lips as they reach mine. His hands move down my back to my waist, and then they crawl up again, under my shirt, until they find my bra. He unsnaps it: a pro, but I won't let myself think about that. Instead I focus on the small of him: beer and laundry detergent. And the fact that it is perfectly quiet, except for the sound of our breath and the muffled beat of music in the party full of people far away.

He pulls away before I want him to, leaving me breath-less, my arms itching to have him back. He smiles, but he's looking elsewhere. And, in a second, he's gone again, down the stairs, back into the party, another bottle of beer in his hand. He's laughing with Ry. He doesn't notice when I come back to the party, my bra re-snapped, my feet three inches off the ground, and my lips tingling.

In the taxi on the way back to Dad's apartment, Pan stares out the window. I know she's mad. I, on the other hand, am euphoric. Our friendship, actually, is getting to be a real drag. Finally she looks at me.

"I can't believe you." She says.

"Is it so hard to believe that Goten might really like me?"

"Yes." She says. "Because he's a bona fide jerk"

"You don't know him that well."

"And you do?"

"I'm getting to know him." I say. I think of his scent, and a wave of Joy passes through my throat. "You wouldn't understand." I say and as soon as I've said it, I know it was a mistake.

"Why?" She says. "Because no boy has ever been interested in me?"

I don't say anything.

"Is that what you're saying?" she asks.

I still say nothing.

"Screw you." She says. It's almost a swear word, which means we're officially in a fight. But after being kissed my Goten Son, I feel as if nothing can penetrate. It's like he put an invisible shield over my body with his wandering hands. And I find that I don't care what Pan thinks. I don't care one bit.

I wake the next morning to the sound of coffee grinding. I pick my head off the pillow and look around. Trunks is already out of bed, nowhere to be seen. Celeria is in the kitchen, without Dad. She's in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and her hair is in a pony tail. She looks barely older than me.

"Did I wake you?" she says when she sees me.

I shrug. "It's not a big deal."

"Come in here."

I glimpse the clock on the wall: 10:15.

"Where is everyone?" I ask.

"Vegeta and Trunks are at the grocery store," she says. It takes me a moment to catch that Vegeta is dad. Mum used to call him 'Dad' now she calls him 'your father'

Everyone else just sticks to Vegeta. Celeria smiles at me. "It's just you and me."

I nod. _Let the good times begin, _I think. Another part of me frowns. _Be nice, _this part warns.

"So," I say, heeding the warning. "Where did you and dad meet?"

Celeria smiles to herself as she pours the water into the coffeemaker.

"Your dad was very romantic," She says.

_My _dad? I doubt that.

"He left a bouquet of daisies at my desk."

"You work with him?"

Another reason why my dad had probably left my mum. He was a saiyan, training was his _work._ Despite the fact that we were already rich, my mum wanted dad to experience what it was like to care for the family especially him being 'man of the house'. But dad found this advice irritating, he felt like his wife was rather his mum.

"I'm a graphic designer at Howe Advertising." She says.

The same company where's Dad's an ad exec.

I watch her as she pulls own two mugs from the cabinet. Graphic design means she's artistic. I guess I hadn't really pegged her as anything. I feel a little guilty. Since this is the first time I've asked her anything about herself.

"Vegeta tells me you're a photographer." She says.

"I try."

She pours coffee into the mugs and holds up the cream and sugar. I nod to both.   
"I'd like to see some of your work." She says.

"I could do that." I say. I take the steaming mug from her.

"My real love is painting." She tells me. I lean against the counter and blow the coffee, wanting to hear more.

"I've been using oils since I was your age."

"Do you still?" I ask.

"Whenever I can." She leans against the opposite counter.

"It's hard to fit into a forty-hour week. But I make time. I have to." She says, looking at me more intensely. "You know?"

I nod. I do know. Dad and Trunks burst in the door with bags of groceries. Dad sees us standing together in the kitchen.

He grunts. "Girly talk." He says, with a slight grin. I take my mug and head back into the living room. He makes it sound as though I'm some little kid. But Celeria was talking to me as her equal. Like I could understand what really matters in life. I liked it.

On Monday I see Goten near his locker. Josh, Shane, and Ashley are there too. I comb my fingers through my hair and walk by, doing my best impression os someone who is at ease with the fact that Goten Son kissed her, and now here he is again, ripe for the picking.

"Hey." I say.

He turns around. "Oh" He says. "Hey"

His friends are silent. The air, a second ago vibrating with possibility, goes flat and still.

"How's it going?" I ask.

Goten shrugs.

An eternity passes. Then, his lips, the lips that kissed me, say "Is there anything else? Because we're kind of talking about something here."

"No." I say. I make a beeline for the girl's bathroom. My face is burning. I feel like I might throw up. As soon as I get there, I lean against the wall and press my forehead to it. Right at my eye level someone has written, MARRON DOES IT DOGGIE STYLE.

"What's the matter?"

I turn my head to see Pan there. Perfect.

"I thought you weren't talking to me." I say.

"I'm talking to you if something bad has happened." She explains. "I'm still your best friend. Your co-dependent best friend," she adds with a half smile.

I drop my hands, relieved. I do need a friend right now.

"You promise you won't say 'I told you so'?"

Pan takes my hands and walks me to the sink.

"Oh, no." She says. "What did that jerk-off do?"

In the mirror I look horrible. My face is red. My eyes are watery. No wonder he doesn't like me. She turns on the cold water and puts a cool wet hand on my forehead. She always knows exactly what I need.

"He treated me like garbage." I close my eyes, focusing on Pan's hands, remembering his hands. My throat aches. "I like him so much." I whisper.

Pan, bless her heart, says nothing.

When I get home, I call 17.

"Hello, gorgeous." He says.

I sit on my bed. The door is closed so Trunks won't hear.

"I'm not gorgeous." I say.

"That's your opinion."

I wait, hoping he'll say more.

"I want to see you." He says.

"Meet me at the end of my street."

After we hang up, I stand before the mirror. I am not quite as horrible as I was before. I try to see what 17 sees. I try to see 'gorgeous'. I pull my hair up, yank a few strands down to frame my face. I turn my face to the side. I can almost see it.

Fifteen minutes later I'm in his care, and his lips are on mine, erasing Goten's.

"Let's go to my place." He whispers.

"Not yet." I say.

"Come on." He pulls me into him, kissing my neck. It makes me feel good.

"No." I say. "Not yet,"

His hands wander my skin, sliding beneath my bra straps.

"You're a tease." He says. I think he's making a joke, but I take it under advisement.

In the darkroom I make prints of my self-portraits and dip them in the fixing bath. I hang the photographs, all twenty-four, and wait for them to show themselves. One by one they come to light, and one by one I see I've failed again. Some look like Sears portraits. Others resemble glamour shots. All of them show a girl with nothing unique to say. More time wasted. I close my eyes, letting the world go away for a moment. I wonder what's happened, why I can't seem to take a worthwhile photo of myself. I used to not have to think, just lift my camera and snap the shutter, confident I would find whatever was worth seeing. Now I can't even find myself.

Marron is the only person on the late bus. She sees me near the back when she walks on, and sits in the front row. From where I sit I can see her profile. She has straight blonde hair and a petite nose. She's kind of pretty, actually. She pulls her history book from her bag and looks down at it. The driver starts up the motor. It is quiet, and I feel sort of bad, like maybe I should say something. Maybe I should be nicer to her, unlike everybody else. After all, we used to sing songs from the radio together. We vowed we'd start a band when we grew up. I imagine moving to sit next to her and telling her about my walks and 17. I imagine telling her things I've been holding on to, afraid to let out. Things that, if I think about them too long, make me feel nervous and out of control. Because, of all people I know, maybe Marron will understand and won't squint with disgust or decide I've lost my mind. Maybe after all Marron has endured, she will know what it's like to want badly for someone to love her and not know a better way to get it. I imagine this conversation all the way to her stop, when she puts her book back in the bag and steps down from the bus, unaware I've been thinking about her at all.

**Well, there's your 5****th**** chapter. Please take time to review.**

_**Tempz99**_


	7. Used

**Sorry for taking so long. Here's your chap. R and R people.**

17 has his hand on my knee. We re in his car, heading for the park, where we plan to slip into the woods and get busy. This is the last Friday to hide behind bushes after Mum has dropped me off for photography class. The last Friday to walk to the Starbucks where 17 waited for me.

Even though the weather has turned cold and there's no sign of sun, the park is full of people. Kids clamber around the playground while mothers sit on benches and talk. Two girls who can't be more than eleven practice dance moves near a large oak. They both wear thongs that show above their jeans. I aim my canon and snap a photo. A few teenage boys play basketball nearby. Dogs chase balls across the length of the lawn. 17 in unfazed. He grabs a blanket from his trunk and heads for the wooded area lining the park. I follow, the canon in my hand.

At first clearing he lays down the blanket and grabs me. We roll around, our legs tangled. After a while I get up and grab my camera.

"What are you doing?" His breath is ragged like he's just finished running.

I aim the camera at him. Through the lens he looks small and tightly wound, like a balloon about to burst. "Smile," I tell him.

"Come on" he reaches for me, but not before I take a shot.

"I don't have any photos of you," I say. I lean away from him and take another picture. This time he grabs the Camera, ad I reach after it.

"You can do this later." He says. "Right now we're doing something else."

When I reach for the camera again, he sets it on the ground next to his crotch. He undoes his jeans. "Come and get it." He says with a growl.

I bite my lip. I can hear the kids in the playground yelling. He takes my hand and presses it on his skin, against his cock, which is hard and warm. He sucks in his breath and pulls me to him. And I take his penis fully into my hand. It is not smooth like I thought it would be, but it's not rough. It's velvety soft, pulsing with energy. As I stroke it, guided by his hand, I can feel the way it grows. It responds to my hand like something alive. 17 nudges my head down, and before I know it, I am head to head with his cock.

"I don't…" I start. I'm not sure how to finish the sentence.

"Please," he says. I look up and see desperation in his eyes. He squirms, pushing himself into me. He is like an animal.

Carefully I take it into my mouth. It is no worse than kissing. I just have to keep my mouth open longer. I can still hear the kids yelling, but they seem far away. He presses my head, urging me to go faster as I bob up and down. I do. With my tongue wrapped round his penis. I then notice the taste. Quiet salty. Yet I have this dirty feeling inside of me that dares me to go on with this, not only that but the excitement makes me have an uneasy yet enjoyable feeling in between my thighs, almost making me want to touch my area. And soon, he moans, and warmth fills my mouth. I try to pull away, but he holds my head firmly, my tongue still wriggling with life around his cock. When he finally releases me, I squeeze my eyes, clench my jaws and swallow, willing myself not to gag.

17 zips his jeans and stands. He reaches for the blanker, but I'm still kneeling on it.

"Let's go." He simply requests.

I stand, wordless. As he lifts the blanket, my camera tumbles onto the pine-needle floor. I had forgotten it was there.

When I get home, Mum and Trunks are sitting on the couch watching a movie.

"There you are," Mum says. She looks like she used to, her expression airy, the darkness hardly there. Trunks snuggled against her. A bowl of popcorn sits on the coffee table.

"What," I say. "I told you I would take a cab home."

Mum looks me up and down. I run my hands through my hair, hoping she can't see what I've just done. My finger catches on a pine needle, so I keep my hand there to hide it.

"I thought you would come straight home." She says. When I don't say anything, she says, "I wanted you to watch the movie with us. Like a family, before your father comes to get you."

I look at then sitting there. A big part of me would like that, to cuddle up with Mum on the couch, like the old days. But I smell like 17 and God-knows-what-else, and there are pine needles in my hair.

"I have homework" I say, and as soon as I say it, I see Mum's face clamp down, like a briefcase closing..

"Fine," she says, and she looks again at the TV. Trunks glares at me.

"Forget my homework." I say. "I'll shower and come back."

"The movie will be over." Mum says. "And then your father will be here." This time she doesn't even turn her head.

Upstairs I take a brush to my hair and watch four pine needles fall to the ground. I gather them, fold them inside a tissue so Mum doesn't see them, and throw them in the wastebasket. On the second thought I pull them back out, pick up my Polaroid, and snap a picture. They are evidence that someone wants me, something I may need a reminder of in future.

At Dad's that weekend I dress for the party in his tiny bathroom. Some sophomore guy's parents are out of town. I wear tight jeans, and a top showing my belly button. I carefully apply eyeliner and lip gloss. When I am ready, I emerge from the bathroom to find Dad on the futon in front of the TV. Dana is in the kitchen, and Trunks is in the chair living room, reading. He eyes me. Dad looks me up and down, a surprise expression on his face.

"Whoa," he says.

I put up my hand. "No comments, please," I tell him.

I try to move fast, gathering stuff for my purse-money, lip gloss, keys, cell phones-so Dad doesn't look too long. It feels funny having him see me made up like this.

"Remember those cute overalls you used to wear?" Dad turns off the TV. Oh, boy. Here we go.

"Dad, that was ages ago."

"No." He says. "That was last year."

"Whatever" I say.

He pats the cushion next to him, and I sit down. I look at Trunks, but he seems to be engrossed in his book.

"Dad, what?" I say. "I have to meet Pan at the party."

Out of the corner of my eye I see Celeria move towards the living room, see us talking, and back up again into the kitchen. I don't want you going out like this."

I stand up. "Like what?"

"Bra." Dad says, his voice getting louder. "Sit down"

I do, but I sit at the edge of the futon, ready to spring. Trunks marks his place in the book and gets up, giving us an annoyed look. She goes into the bathroom.

"I said I don't want you going out like this."

"And I said, like what?"

"Like some kind of tramp, Bra." He says. I stare at him. I can't believe he said that to me. Part of me wants to tell him how hurtful it is. I mean, he's supposed to be on my side. I've been on his for so long. But the other part, knowing he won't understand and how hypocritical he is, rears its head. I stand up.

"Why not?" I say, and as I do, I look directly at Celeria, who is watching from the other room. "Because I look too much like the girls you date?" I can't read Celeria's face, but when I look at Dad, I see a vain protruding his temple. I feel bad about Celeria, especially after our conversations last time, but I knew those words would get him.

"You get changed right now," he says in a low voice.

I grab my purse and my backpack, and I head for the door. "Screw you." I say as I leave.

Once outside I can't control my tears. They rush out in ugly spurts. I sit on the cement stairs and dig into my purse for my compact and use a tissue. I listen for Dad to come after me, to not let me go, but he doesn't. He stays inside with Celeria. Probably relieved to have me gone. I do my best to fix my makeup.

A few cars pass on the street. I briefly consider calling 17, forgetting the party, and having him pick me up, a sure way to feel like someone wants me. But I resist the urge, and I call Pan for a ride.

An hour into the party Goten approaches me. He's drunk again. I pretend I am too. We make our way into a bed room. It's a girl's bedroom. Yellow walls and frilly canopy. A teddy bear wearing a hot pink half shirt is propped again the pillow. Goten pushes me down on the bed, and we kiss. I encourage him to touch me, everywhere, anywhere. Just as long as he touches me. This time I am determined to make him like me.

I get myself on top of him and grab his hair as I kiss him. Then I creep my hand down to his fly and unzip. His eyes are closed, his mouth slack. I kiss my way down to his belly, listening as his breathing intensifies and quickens. Listening as he becomes helpless. All mine. His penis is hard and warm, just like 17's. It is just as velvety soft. I breathe on it, watching it throb a bit. And before I can take it in my mouth and show off my new skill, Goten squirms and moans and finishes on his boxers.

He swears. Then he jumps up and yanks at his jeans.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"Back to the party." He says. "Where do you think?"

"But we just got here," I say. I move toward him, and he steps back. He reaches for the doorknob.

"See you around." He says, and he's gone.

Then it's just me and the teddy bear, sitting on the frilly bed. I pick up the bear and hold it to me. I wonder what would happen if the girl who sleeps here came in to find me hugging her teddy bear, curled up on her bed. Maybe she would scream, and the whole party would come upstairs to see what happened. Goten would push his way through the crowd, climb onto the bed, and take me in his arms. I'm sorry, he would say. I shouldn't have left you here alone. It's just… it's just I love you, and the feelings scared me. But I'm here now, and I'm ready to be with you. The crowd applauds. Credits roll.

I'll have to remember that one when I can't fall asleep. Downstairs I can't find Pan. I check the bathroom, the kitchen, every room of the party. Finally I ask the sophomore guy.

"The flat-chested one with the short dark hair?" he asks. I nod. "She's not completely flat." I add defensively.

"She's been gone for a while." He says. "I'm guessing she left."

I go find my purse. My backpack is in Pan's mother's car. I was going to stay the night. Now I'll have to sneak into Dad's apartment and pray no one wakes up. My throat gets tight like I'm going to cry. Could this night get any worse?

In the kitchen I call for a cab. Goten and a few others are playing quarters at the kitchen table. As I walk away, he looks up.

"You leaving?" he asks.

I nod. _As if you care,_ I think. But I also consider the possibility that he does. Maybe the fantasy wasn't entirely off the mark.

"Okay," he says, "See ya Monday."

And with that the night is recovered, perhaps not a complete disaster after all.

I slip the key in the lock, turn the knob slowly, and tiptoe inside. Moonlight splashes through the room, and I see Trunks asleep beneath the covers on the futon, his body rising with each breath. I close the door and set my purse on a chair. I pull off my boots. As I turn towards the bathroom, Trunks turns over.

"I thought you were sleeping out." He whispers.

"So did I." I whisper back. "Pan left me stranded."

"Why?"

"I don't know." I lie. I know exactly why, but I'm not going to tell Trunks any of it.

He sits up. His hair mussed. His glasses are on the floor beside him. He looks handsome eight now, with the moonlight on his face.

"How has it been?" I ask, a grimace on my face.

Trunks frowns. "B" he says. Nobody's called me 'B' in years.

"It's not good."

I come closer. "What?"

He takes the sheet and squeezes it in his fist. "They're getting married." He says.

I make a face. "No way." "He wouldn't tell you without me there."

"I overheard them." Trunks says. "Celeria wanted to know when he was going to tell us."

I shake my head. "The perfect end to a perfect night." I say.

"I don't know what to do.." Trunks says, looking at the sheet in his hand.

"What are you talking about?" I say. "There's nothing for you to do."

"About Mum." He says. He looks like he might start crying.

"God, Trunks." I say. I pull off the bracelets and throw them on the floor.

"Mum's a big girl."

Tears come into Trunks' eyes. I stare at him, dumbfounded.

"When are you going to get a like of your own?" I ask. My voice sounds mean, and I know I'm stepping on dangerous ground. We don't talk about this ever. Something about the darkness of the room and the moonlight make me feel brave. Or maybe it's the event of the night.

Trunks looks down at the sheet again. "I have my own life." He says. Even he doesn't sound convinced.

"You're sixteen," I say. "You should be hanging out with your friends and having fun. Not spending all your time with your mother."

Trunks doesn't say anything. The words tumble inside me, out of control. I could go on and on. It's a relief to be saying them, even as it's scary.

"She's using you."

"She's not."

"Come on!" I yell. "Be a man!"

Trunks is fully crying now. I should stop, let him be. But I want him to get it already. I want someone in this family other than me to deal with reality. I'm tired of bearing the weight myself.

"She only cares about herself." I say with a sigh.

"That's not true."

"Does she ever talk to you about you?" I ask.

Trunks is silent, the tears flowing. _Stop, _I command myself. Not in a million years have I ever witnessed my brother's tears, or have become the cause of it. _Stop, _I tell myself again. But I can't seem to.

"You have friend in the world." I tell him. "And she couldn't care less about you."

Trunks turns from me, sobbing audibly. _Happy now?_ I ask myself. Someone rouses in the other room, and the bedroom door opens.

"Everything okay out there?" Dad asks. He's wearing just a pair of white boxers. I feel disgusted knowing that Celeria is also in the same room with him. Sleeping. Sleeping with _my_ dad.

He looks disoriented, woken from a deep sleep. Just seeing him there, bleary-eyed and ignorant makes me mad,

"We're fine." I say angrily. Trunks pulls the blanket up, trying to quiet his sobs. Any fool can see we're not. Dad clears his throat. He doesn't even glance at Trunks.

"Okay then." He says. He disappears into the bedroom.

That's about all I can take for one night. I stomp into the bathroom, no longer caring who I disturb.

**Please ****Review.**

_**Tempz99**_


	8. Just abit of fun & nothing more

**Here's your chapter. Sorry for the wait. R&R**

I finally get Pan on the phone.

"Pan," I say. "Talk to me."

"I'm too mad to talk," She says. I can hear a vacuum in the background. She always cleans when she gets mad.

"You're the one who left me." I say. "I had to pay for a cab and sneak into my dad's apartment."

"You deserved it," She says.

"Because I like Goten?"

"Because you keep encouraging him to treat you like dirt."

I hear Mum and Trunks talking in Mum's room. Mum's voice and rising, which means Trunks must have told her about Dad and Dana. He officially told us their wedding plans right before dropping us off. I close my door so I don't have to hear anymore.

"That's not what I'm doing."

Pan sighs. "I can't accommodate it anymore, Bra," she says.

I hate it when she gets all co-dependent-no-more.

"I'm not some drug addict," I say.

"Well, you're acting like one," She says, "Your drug of choice is Goten."

I take a deep breath. I want to tell her how he said, "See ya Monday," but I know she'll misinterpret it. Besides, it's easy for her. She has Deb, who supports her no matter what, who cares what's happening in her life. So I change the subject.

"My Dad's getting married, Pan." I tell her.

"Oh, no," she says. I hear the vacuum shut down.

"And Mum's losing it."

"I'm too mad for you to be in the middle of a crisis," she tells me.

Then, "What can I do?"

"Just tolerate me a little longer." I say.

She sighs. "You know I will."

On Monday Ruth floats through art class, checking out everyone's still-life sketches. We're supposed to draw the pile of squash sitting on a stool in the centre of the room.

Ashley and their friends keep giggling because one of the vegetables looks phallic. I keep glancing at her, trying to decide how I will ask her what Goten has said about me.

She must know something, but she hasn't looked at me once.

"Just another month and a half." Ruth says as she passes me.

Great. A swift, painful reminder of my complete lack of talent.

I watch as Ashley asks to go to the restroom. Suddenly I have to go too.

In the bathroom I see Ashley's shoes underneath the stall door.

"Great party Saturday night," I say.

"Please," Ashley says. "Fast-forward to me hanging over the toilet bowl Sunday morning."

"Goten must have had a rough morning too." I say, seeing my opening. "He was pretty drunk."

She flushes. I quickly dig into my purse, then apply lip gloss.

"I guess." Ashley says. She emerges from the stall and watches herself in the mirror as she washes her hands. Her hair is blonde and blown perfectly straight. She is the Barbie doll of our school. I turn from the mirror, hating to see myself in comparison to her.

"Did he say anything?" I ask.

"About what?"

"About me?"

Ashley examines me. "Sweetie," she says. "What's up?"

I shrug.

"Listen, Bra." She says. "Do yourself a favour and do not fall for Goten Son."

I shake my head. "Of course not," I say. She heads for the door, and I follow. Easy for her to say. Shane, the second cutest guy in ninth grade, is in love with her.

"Stick to photography," She says as we get to the art classroom. "Isn't there some kind of contest coming up?

-

-

Goten is in line in the cafeteria when I get there. I keep my eye on him as I move through the line. When he heads for his table, tray in hand, I make my move.

"Can I talk to you?" I ask. "Privately?"

He looks at his tray, then at the table of his friends waiting.

"Uh, yeah." He says. "I guess for a minute."

I lead him to an unoccupied table, the one where Marron usually eats alone.

He eyes it uncomfortably, and then hesitantly sets down the tray. I wait for him to sit, but realize he doesn't plan to.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I don't know about you, but I was planning to sit with my friends and have some lunch."

Very funny.

"You know what I mean." I say. I watch him, remembering the taste of his mouth, remembering how he was under my spell on that little girl's bed.

"What do you want from me?" he says.

"It's just that you and I were together Saturday," I remind him. "And a few weeks before."

A couple of people give us curious glances. They're not used to seeing us together.

"So what?" he says. He shifts his feet, growing restless. "We had some fun."

I bite my lip.

"What?" he says, "You thought we were something more?"

I look down.

"I've got to get back to my table." He says. He grabs his tray and moves quickly, before I have a chance to say anything more.

--

Rather than stay after school to work in the darkroom I go straight home. I don't want to see Ruth again. I don't want her to ask me about the contest or, worse, Goten.

At home it seems like no one is there until I get upstairs. Mum and Trunks are in Mum's bedroom, and Mom is crying. Again. I can feel something rise in my throat: frustration, disgust, sick-of-it-all-ness. Only when it reaches my mouth do I realize it's a scream.

Trunks comes rushing out of the room.

"What's going on?" he says.

"God!" I yell. "How can you stand it?"

"What's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with me?" I ask, "What's the matter with _you?_"

Mum comes up behind Trunks. Her eyes are puffy and red.

"Calm down, Bra," She says in a steady voice.

"And you!" I yell, "I can't even look at you."

I stomp into my room, slamming the door behind me. In my mind I see Goten walking away. _You thought we were something more?_ An ache spreads in my chest and flows all the way to my fingertips. No wonder I can't stand Mum's crying anymore. I'm just needy as she is.

I dial the number and wait for him to pick up.

"Come get me," I say. "I want to go to your place."

In ten minutes, just enough time for me to change into the black miniskirt and reapply my makeup, the silver Civic pulls up front of the Gibbonses' house.

17's apartment is just one room with a tiny kitchen and bathroom. There's no closet, and his clothes clump together in two piles against the wall. A tapestry hangs from tacks above them. His unmade bed is the main attraction of the room. He moves past me and pulls out two beers from the fridge. Then he motions towards the bed.

"Make yourself comfortable." He says. He takes a long swig from the beer and hands one to me.

I sit, my heart thrumming. I look down at the brown shag carpet and try to steady my breathing. _What am I doing here?_ I go over the events of the day: Ashley's airy disinterest, Jason's flat-out rejection, and my mother's crying to Trunks. The events don't actually come to me one by one. They come as a wave of feeling. A wave of dejection and anxiety about not mattering to anyone. Except, perhaps, 17.

"I thought I'd never get you here," He says. He sits next to me and pushes my hair behind my ear. He kisses the ear gently, so gently the kiss touches me deep down, where I feel invisible, where a tiny version of me waits to be seen. I feel like I might cry.

"Well," I say. "I'm here now."

He takes my beer and places it on the floor. We kiss. With my eyes closed, his touch feels like oxygen, like puffs of breath bringing me back into being. He pushes up my shirt and unsnaps my bra. Slides his hands under my skirt. He pulls his shirt over his head and yanks down his jeans. It all happens quickly. And suddenly we're naked, except my skirt hiked up around my stomach, and he is pressing and struggling to get inside me. _Inside _me. I hold my breath and grit my teeth. This is, of course, my first time.

17 pulls back to look at me. "You've done this before, right?" He asks.

I try to look at ease. An eighteen-year-old would have done this before.

"Of course." I say.

He regards me a moment longer. I look to the side, where I have a full view of the kitchen, just in case my face reveals more than I want to. A crusted- over plate and fort sit next to the sink.

"How old are you?" 17 asks." "Really."

"I told you," I say, still looking at the kitchen. "I'm eighteen."

"Because right now would be the right time to tell me if you weren't."

I still can't look at him. I consider this. Telling him will lead to him removing his hands. It will wind up with him going away for good. I can't risk it, not with the wave rushing through my body. Not when his touch can inflate me, make me feel seen.

"It's just been a while." I say.

He's still looking at me, trying to ascertain the truth.

"I want you to," I say then.

And with that, 17 acquiesces. He pushes harder. It hurts. A lot. Enough that I feel tears come into my eyes. I squeeze them shut, and a tear rolls down my face. It lands in my ear. I know I'm dead set on being eighteen, but I feel like a little girl. I grip the sheet, pulling it into a ball inside my fist. After a bit the pain settles into numbness.

Eons later 17 shudders and moans, and rolls off me. Well, that's that. I pull the sheet up over myself. I feel warm liquid down there, and I remember, with a start, that girls can bleed their first time.

"Can I use your bathroom?" I whisper.

"Of course," He mumbles. When I look at him, I see his eyes are closed. He breathes peacefully, falling asleep.

I hold the sheet to me while I gather up my clothes. I push down my skirt and snap on my bra. I go into his bathroom. A couple of magazine-the same kind I saw in his car-sit on oh the back of the toilet. I rip off some toilet paper and lower my seat. When I pee, it stings, and I bite my hand to keep from making a noise. There is no blood. I throw the rest of my clothes, and, careful to avoid the mirror as I leave the bathroom, I tiptoe past sleeping 17, grab my purse, and get out of there.

Outside, the air is cold. It is almost dark, that blue time of the day that I love. Goose bumps form on my legs. Why did I wear this stupid miniskirt again? The leaves sway in a silent dance as they fall from the trees. A candy wrapper skitters across the street. A car passes. The world is exactly the same. Impossible, but true. Everyone says your first time should be magical. You should be in love. You should feel safe. Because you can't go back once you've done it. That will always be your first time. Years later this is what I'll remember as my first time. That inflated sensation is long gone. Now I just feel vaguely nauseous; it's the feeling I get when reality dawns.

I call a taxicab.

At home Mum's minivan is gone and the house is silent. I stand a moment in the foyer, listening to the buzz from the refrigerator. I climb the stairs. My legs feel like lead. I strip my clothes off and turn on the shower, nice and hot. I've read about bathing with super hot water after rape, trying to scrub off their perpetrator. But I went willingly into it. I pushed for it. The water feels good. Comforting. It washes away these thoughts and the anxiety accompanying them. In fact, I feel exhausted. What I want more than anything is to get into my bed and close my eyes.

But before I do, I take the miniskirt and dump it in the garbage.

**Hey yall. I probably would've done a stronger lemon but I knew that if I did I would get carried away and probably go off plot. Sorry for the long wait.**

**Please review.**

_**Tempz99**_


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